


Walk a trail (with no end in sight)

by monanotlisa



Category: Fringe
Genre: AU, Anal Play, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Canon Compliant, Comfort Sex, Continuation, Fingerfucking, First Kiss, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post 4:07 - Wallflower, RST, Resolved Sexual Tension, Rimming, Season/Series 04, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000, follow-up fic, h/c, riffing off my betters basically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-15
Updated: 2012-11-15
Packaged: 2017-11-18 17:14:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/563466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monanotlisa/pseuds/monanotlisa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Early Season Four fic with an arguably slight divergence from canon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Walk a trail (with no end in sight)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rainer76](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainer76/gifts).
  * Inspired by [A partition of Comfort.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/523522) by [rainer76](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainer76/pseuds/rainer76). 



> I have a sneaking suspicion I've got the whole 'healing cock' trope wrong. In all the right ways, possibly.
> 
> Set right after the story that inspired it. It won't make much sense without it, I'm afraid. (May still be hot, though.)

_Silence procedure_ , Lincoln thinks half-hysterically. While he did not manage to say, ‘Yes, Please,' on the phone line four hours ago, his head has been filled with nothing but: a mantra, only less transformative and purifying.

At least Lincoln brought pizza.

Peter blinks at the steaming, grease-edged carton in Lincoln's hand. He's wearing only a towel around his waist (and not a generous towel at that). Hair dark with moisture, a tangle of curls with the random spike where he must have tried rubbing it dry just when the doorbell rang. Lincoln watches him drip-drip-drip onto the doorstep of the Victorian where his not-father lived. Sleek and wet is a good look on Peter, but then again, what isn't? 

"Pepperoni," he ventures, "so can I come in?"

Peter laughs, then, as sudden as it is soft. Surprised. "Sure." He does Lincoln the favour of turning, and yeah, the soft cotton stretches very agreeable across Peter's ass when he trots across the hallway and into the kitchen.

When Lincoln looks further up, he catches Peter's glance over his shoulder and his half-smile too. 

"Put it on the counter," Peter says on the other side of the kitchen island, and leans onto it. He's still practically naked. The muscles in his arms bunch, and the angles and planes of his chest are outlined starkly in the lamp light. 

Lincoln's mouth is watering. Could be the pizza. Its smell fills up the room.

"Guess I am hungry again." Peter looks like it. His eyes don't leave Lincoln's face, not even when Peter thumbs open the carton and fishes out a slice with one hand. He bites into it, slowly, almost delicately for a guy his size. "'s good. You should have some too."

Right. Lincoln wants to wash his hands first, but he doesn't want to move away. He reaches out and grabs a piece of pizza. Peter didn't lie; it's a juicy burst of meat and spice on his tongue. It's not quite what Lincoln wants a taste of, of course.

Lincoln finishes his slice, and before he can say anything Peter jerks his head toward the sink. "Paper towels are over there." His grin is lazy. "Grab me some too."

Heart pounding in tell-tale ways, Lincoln goes. His fingers are slippery not just from pizza grease. He's barely touched the paper towel when there is movement behind him, near-soundless. Peter comes to halt right behind Lincoln. The bulk of his body is not quite touching Lincoln's but already throwing off heat in spite of the nakedness. His voice in Lincoln's ear makes Lincoln break out in a light sweat. "You came."

Lincoln sucks in some much-needed air. "No I didn't," he says mildly, and doesn't even have to turn around to know that Peter is grinning. 

"We'll have to do something about that." Low voice, and its rumble is enough to remind Lincoln so vividly of this afternoon. _You present like a schoolboy, but I bet that's misdirection._

"You better," Lincoln murmurs, still frozen in place. "It wasn't especially comfortable sitting in the middle of the bullpen with a hard-on the size of Rhode Island."

A snort, and then Peter is brushing his lips, his stubbled chin lightly along Lincoln's jawline. A question; a request for confirmation. Lincoln nods very slightly. Closes his eyes when Peter takes his glasses off and puts them on the far end of the kitchen island. Peter's hand touches the stiff fabric of his shirt, slides down to where he's stiffer. "Not even much in the way of hyperbole." Well. Lincoln's never had any complaints. Peter's right hands closes gently around his cock through the fabric of his pants. "But then, Rhode Island…" Peter's other hand is busy undoing the top button of Lincoln's shirt, then the second and third. 

"Leaving my tie on?" Lincoln's voice has dropped a register, too; his hips arch forward into Peter's touch, who refuses to tighten his grip; damn tease that he is. "You were pretty specific." 

"Gotta be for phone sex. How else to imagine every detail?"

Lincoln turns his head far enough to catch Peter's eyes. "I always thought it's fill-in-the blanks. Picture whatever you want." _Whomever you want._ Lincoln didn't know, didn't know until now. But there's no mistaking the expression on Peter's face when Lincoln slides his fingers across Peter's. Maybe Lincoln was convenient when Peter called. Very certainly he still is, here in this Boston kitchen. But he's also the very same guy the mysterious Peter Bishop harboured a fantasy or two about. Lincoln helps him unbuttoning his shirt, then the pants. "I liked it. Your…narrative."

"People say I tell a good story," Peter says, mouth one inch from Lincoln's, and what the hell. Peter's lips open up so readily when Lincoln goes in, twists sideways until he's facing Peter. Maybe he's pushy, but Peter seems to like it just fine, returns Lincoln's kiss until both of them are breathing hard. 

The dress shirt doesn't stay on, after all; Peter looks at him for a moment and then drags it off, tosses it into the sink behind them before staring at Lincoln's arms, his chest underneath the thin undershirt. But oh, the tie -- it's still on, if dangling precariously.

"Going off-script?" 

"What can I say," Peter says, leaning in and slanting his mouth over Lincoln's again, rougher now, "I'm also good at improvisation."

Of course he is, Lincoln thinks and smiles against Peter's lips. Lincoln runs his hands over skin and muscle, their solid landscapes. He unties the towel while he's at it, cups his hands around Peter's ass. It feels even better than it looks, wiry hair and strength underneath, and Peter jumps when Lincoln squeezes, runs a finger up inside. Peter moans softly. "Lincoln."

"Yeah." Lincoln's pants really have to go, and thankfully Peter shares the sentiment, because he drops to his knees, taking them with him along with Lincoln's boxers, and that image makes Lincoln a little dizzy. Yet it's nothing compared to a fully nude Peter Bishop now kneeling in front of him, lips half-open and still wet, a flush on his face. Not to mention that he's looking at Lincoln's cock with the kind of intent usually reserved for inter-dimensional machinery sketches.

"Hard to talk now," Peter says, and then his hands curl around Lincoln's ass, pinky sliding into the groove where they meet Lincoln's legs. His mouth closes gently around the head. Peter hollows his cheeks, lips and a hint of teeth that make Lincoln shudder forward and curl his fingers into Peter's shoulder, his hair still moist and soft, and it's so good, it's –

Peter pulls back, his eyes feverish. The corners of his mouth glisten. "Behind you, right side of the sink – olive oil?"

Olive… Lincoln exhales, has to laugh. "You can't be –" 

"I don't feel like going upstairs to rummage around in the bedside drawers right now. Do you?" Peter quirks an eyebrow at him and licks a long swipe down the length of Lincoln's cock. It proves his point, and proves it fast. Lincoln gropes for the green glass bottle -- extra virgin, what else; Lincoln feels something bright bubble up in his chest -- and shoves it into Peter's hand.

Lincoln wants to ask whether the cupboard with Crisco was also too far away, but Peter swallows him down again, deep enough to make Lincoln gasp. One slick finger is sliding down, behind his cock. Peter hums around him, the vibration making Lincoln's eyes flutter shut, and his index finger glides further up, circling around his hole. Lincoln draws another breath, feels the pressure build already. "Please," Lincoln says, and when Peter pushes one finger inside very slowly, Lincoln bears down. The oil makes everything warm and slippery. Lincoln breathes. In and out. The sensation is, as ever, at once strange and familiar, blossoming deep in his belly. Peter adds a second finger, keeps rubbing inside in just the right place, and he's true to his word, to the letter. His thumb outside strokes the soft strip of skin between Lincoln's cock and balls, back and forth, hypnotically. "God," Lincoln gasps, and around his cock Peter grins. 

Lincoln doesn't know how long he stands, no, _leans_ here against the counter on legs feeling a little unsteady already. Peter coaxes spirals of pleasure from his body by using his tongue with just the right amount of pressure on him, by using his fingers deep inside Lincoln. But he knows when Peter grips him harder around the ass, the back of his legs, and slides Lincoln's cock even deeper, swallowing around it, darkly-sweet pressure, perfectly so. Lincoln's vision goes grey at the edges, and although he wanted to speak it comes out as only as a groan. 

He's vaguely aware of Peter swallowing every drop before sliding down the counter, wooden knobs of the non-metaphorical sort digging into his back, but just before his ass hits the tiles – and just before that cold awakening – Peter grips his forearms and hauls him up. 

If Peter looked debauched before, on his knees, he looks wrecked now, even though he at least is able to stay upright. "We're going upstairs, and if you don't want me to fuck you, you need to tell me now." His eyes narrow in consideration; their glint is almost amused, though. "Or later. Later is good too."

Lincoln laughs quietly, finds his footing. Everything seems bright, hazy; he feels more than a bit sleepy. His hair is probably almost as wet as Peter's by now. He touches his forehead against Peter's clavicle, one hand curled around his waist and one on his shoulder. His nose slides gently along the fine sheen of sweat on Peter's skin. Lincoln's tongue darts out for a taste: salt, and enough of pure Peter Bishop to send a sliver of heat down his spine. "You can fuck me." He keeps his voice low and rough; it's not a hardship and it makes Peter shiver. "I want you to, actually."

"Oh, good." It sounds sardonic, but when Lincoln checks Peter's eyes are wide and blue, pupils blown. He's not messing with Lincoln's mind, but then again Lincoln realises he hasn't for a while – not since that sudden phone call to his desk. Something is off, not about this but about everything. Peter seems to like some semblance of control well enough, but it's only in this situation that he needs it a lot more than he lets on. 

"It is," Lincoln says, insistent, and when he reaches out it's not to satisfy his own desire. He presses a row of kisses along Peter's neck, the broad line of his shoulder. "I'm here. I'd like –" he swallows, "I'd like to be here for you tomorrow too." It's corny; it's a must-not-say, pretty much, but the way Peter looks, really _looks_ at him makes something in Lincoln's chest clench in spite of how loose-limbed he feels right now.

"Thanks," Peter says, and he still doesn't look away. His hand reaches up, cups Lincoln's cheek and, around, the nape of Lincoln's neck as if it belonged there. "I appreciate it." Lincoln can see him bite his lips then, but he's distracted because that's when Peter pulls him closer and kisses him too chastely for a guy still wearing a hard-on.

Upstairs, Peter's bed is rumpled and slept-in but the room a notch too cold. There are spiderwebs in the upper right corner, just below the ceiling, and the window hasn't been cleaned in decades. Lincoln thinks he himself couldn't be more stereotypical; _look at the bi guy and his interior design critique_ , but mostly the ache around his ribcage flares up again. "Peter," he says, hesitant only because he doesn't want to spook the guy. There are rules here, unwritten and unspoken but very real; Lincoln is usually too pretty and too busy to care about abiding by them. But he cares now. "What do you want?"

Peter's gaze is steadier now. Lincoln can't quite read him. "Get on the bed. On all fours."

Right. Lincoln quells the rush of emotions, disappointment and exhilaration and everything in-between. The sheets warm up quickly under his hands, his knees. His mouth is dry. Usually, he's into getting fucked, but here, he'd want --

The bed dips behind him, and Peter's scent envelops him. Lincoln inhales slowly, very consciously relaxes. It's no shock at all to feel Peter's hands slide, carefully, up the back of his legs, pulling him open. "You showered before you came here," Peter says, and it's not a question.

Lincoln nods. "I was…thorough." 

"Not to mention optimistic." Peter's voice is silken, but nothing in it has prepared Lincoln for the soft rush of air against his hole, and he jumps, lets out a sound he knows is a little high. "Shh."

His only answer is a gasp. Lincoln knows it's silly; he's been rimmed before, but Peter – Peter is watching him when he twists around, and the smile on his face is soft, Cheshire Cat that's gotten the cream. "Thought you'd look like this," Peter murmurs, and he sounds centered now. "Let me."

"Okay," Lincoln says, and it comes out strangled. He doesn't just like every swipe of Peter's tongue, the way he delicately circles the rim, sliding inside with both playfulness and intent. He loves it, gives up on trying to keep the whimpers from coming out of his throat. By the time Peter reaches into his drawers and slicks Lincoln up inside again, Lincoln's hard again, his cock wet at the tip and body tight as a wire. "Lie down," Peter murmurs, and dimly Lincoln registers a pillow shoved under him, tilting his ass up. Peter's lips find the curve of Lincoln's spine and follow it before he slides home: deep and easy, too good to be true, and Lincoln reaches back blindly, seized with a longing he can't even name. 

Peter's hand catches his, their fingers intertwining. "I've got you," he says. "I've got it." And for the first time ever Lincoln believes him: believes that Peter believes it.

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd; please feel free to point out any and all mistakes.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Ache of the Ocean](https://archiveofourown.org/works/567675) by [elfin (crazylittleelf)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazylittleelf/pseuds/elfin)




End file.
